Assassin's Creed Legacy: The Recruit
by The Last Xenite
Summary: Jason Blake is just an average, if somewhat dweebish teenager who's obsessed with the Assassin's Creed series. After crossing paths with the (very real) modern Brotherhood, he soon finds himself at The Farm. Enduring rigorous training, an unnerving mentor and a persistent bully (among other things) Despite his lineage, was he really meant to be an assassin? Or was it just bad luck?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One- Guns n' Groceries**

My Dad once told me that curiosity is a poison. Cheery as he was, you'd think he would've mentioned that curiosity can also be a 9mm bullet…because personally, I didn't need to learn that first-hand.

My name is Jason Blake. Up until recently, I was pretty much your average teenager, albeit one stupid enough to skulk about a seedy neighborhood after dark.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little too dramatic.

I just stepped out of the neighborhood 7-Eleven with a loaf of bread and a bag of peanut M&Ms. Since my dad left, I've been stuck with a lot more responsibilities than just mowing the lawn once a week.

It wasn't the best of neighborhoods either, which is why my left hand kept drifting to the switchblade in my back pocket.

_Maybe a mugger can use it to clean their nails after they're done with me._

I was trying to ignore the stench of a nearby dumpster when I heard it.

"Where are your so-called brothers _now_?"

The voice came from an alley just around the corner- a cold drawl- a young man, by the sound of it.

I hesitated before edging along the cool brick wall to my left, dropping my stuff behind the offending dumpster as I approached the corner.

"_Gulgamtgai novsh!" _a second voice snapped, a girl. The language sounded vaguely Asian, but judging by the venom those words carried, it didn't take a professor to figure out it was an insult.

"This isn't your problem, Jason" I chastised myself, "Don't be an idiot."

A sickening thud pulled me from my reverie, followed by a stifled cry that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

_Well, if it's just one guy…_

I'd stepped into the alleyway before my brain even registered what I was doing, willing my eyes to adjust to the inky darkness.

The man had her backed against the wall, deliberately cocking his fist back for another strike. He stood imposingly over the girl in question, who was struggling to get to her feet. Her face was obscured by a black hood, which made her almost indiscernible from the grimy cement behind her.

"This doesn't concern you, _boy_." he spat, turning before advancing slowly towards me.

Any retort I could've hoped to come up with died in my throat.

I cautiously reached for my back pocket with a sweaty hand, praying he didn't notice how badly my legs were trembling.

He was barreling towards me before I even got close. Instinct alone dragged me out of harms way as I sidestepped at the last second. Seeing what was most likely my only opportunity, I latched my left arm around his neck. Putting every ounce of strength I could into my right fist, I began to pummel away frantically.

His nose, forehead, jaw, neck…I connected anywhere I could before the adrenaline coursing through my veins ebbed away.

He thrashed about so wildly that I'm pretty sure I felt my left shoulder pop out of place. The sharp bolt of pain only spurred me to redouble my efforts. By the time he had been forced to his knees, my knuckles were warm and slick with blood. Whether it was my blood or his, I didn't care.

A satisfying _crunch _accompanied the blow that followed and he keeled over with a soft groan. Only the occasional rise and fall of his chest gave any indication that he was alive.

I staggered towards the stooped figure now propped up against a rusty drainpipe.

"Hey, are you-" I began.

"GET DOWN!"

Dizzy and slightly deafened by my own blood pounding in my ears, I stumbled, and then dropped into a crouch seconds before blinding agony flared in my left arm. I clawed at it instinctively, trying to staunch the flow of blood that steadily dripped off my elbow.

Despite the stars that burst before my eyes, I still managed to catch a glimpse of the pistol-wielding culprit on the fire-escape above…heard the metallic hiss and the surprisingly loud _phit! _as the knife grip suddenly sprouted from his throat. He collapsed like a defective marionette, retching violently.

I thought I spied two more cowled shadows descending from the adjacent rooftop before my eyesight grew dim.

As I succumbed to the ether that laced my vision, an absurd part of my mind thought of the bread and M&Ms that I'd ditched behind the dumpster.

_It'll probably become some vagrant's midnight snack now…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two- Bloodlines**

_The shalvar chafed uncomfortably as I tried to maintain my haughty gait. Ohrmazd only knew how the Vizier kept this up for hours at a time. The gaudy and impractically bulky robes made just a leisurely stroll torturous. _

_The heavy oak door creaked loudly as I stepped into the King's bedchamber. I only had a few minutes before Artabanus would be sprinting through the palace corridors, yelling bloody murder while trying not to trip on his loin cloth._

_The thick, over-scented air was stifling enough without having to share it with fifty vengeful royal guards._

_For a man responsible for so many deaths, King Xerxes slept peacefully, his gentle snores overpowering even the persistent creaking of the crickets that wafted through his bedside window._

_I tensed my right hand as I leaned over his slumbering form, feeling the rough-hewn blade spring from its housing beneath my sleeve._

_A finger was a small price to pay for such a deadly yet inconspicuous weapon._

"_Astharaw-hath-darsawlah" I whispered, before bringing the blade plunging down towards the tender vessels of his exposed neck._

I gasped, feeling the catheter being ripped from my arm as my right hand shot out involuntarily. I almost expected it to connect with the King's sullied flesh.

I screwed up my eyes against the glare of the harsh fluorescent light above, swallowing audibly. My throat felt like sandpaper. The next thing I noticed was the inertia; being nudged left and right as the cabin occasionally tilted. I was either in some sort of vehicle, (the back of a van, by the sound of it) or I was a lot dizzier than I first thought.

"I told you it was a bad idea, Lucas. Why don't you mess up his _other_ arm too?" a voice quipped over the drone of the engine. It dripped with an almost stereotypical British accent.

"Hey, we needed to be sure," another guy, most likely Lucas, dismissed "and if you're gonna blame anyone for bad ideas, bother Audrey"

"Look, how many times do I have to tell you?"

This one was familiar- the girl from the alley- though it seemed she spoke English just as naturally as whatever it was I heard back then.

"No-one knew the informant was a sleeper, and we could've cleaned it up just fine if _Auditore _over here hadn't assumed I was some damsel in distress!" she shot back, sarcasm barely masking her bitterness.

"Darius" the Brit mumbled.

"What?"

"His ancestor," he began, "it isn't-"

"Shut up, he's awake" Lucas cut in sharply, thwarting any further discussion.

_The weird dream…this talk of ancestors…Auditore…_

My brain was painfully slow to process what I was hearing, mainly because the answer was downright absurd.

A surprisingly cheerful face came into focus- tousled blonde hair and watery blue eyes- the guy looked no older than sixteen.

"Need a hand, bruv?" he asked, tapping my left arm before snorting at his clever joke.

It wasn't quite as funny when I tried to sit up. My arm felt like it'd gone to sleep, pins and needles creeping from the point of my shoulder to my fingertips in maddening waves. I looked down to see it heavily bandaged and taped, clean brown splotches on both sides of my forearm.

"Ah, I'm just taking the piss, 'ere," he said, gingerly helping me up "'Name's Daniel, by the way"

"Jason" I replied, before flinching at the hoarseness of my own voice.

My guess had been mostly accurate. The whitewashed cabin seemed spacious enough to house about four motorcycles comfortably. (I should know)

A redhead sat in the far right corner, toying with a throwing knife while the other hand cradled her ribs. She threw me a dirty look before turning her emerald gaze back to the knife in her hand, as if to say: _Be grateful I'm not throwing this at you instead._

Audrey, as if there was any doubt.

Some movement flitted in the corner of my eye, and I risked a glance at the van's third occupant, Lucas. Jet black hair swept his shoulders, growing in such an unruly shock that it almost covered his eyes.

His eyes…for a second they flashed with something more than bored indifference. _Gold?_ I gave myself a mental shake. It was probably the lighting; his eyes were just as dark as the locks that he habitually brushed away from it.

I picked anxiously at a tear in my mud-splattered jeans when I realized what I was sitting on. It almost propelled me to my feet.

A red, leather-padded recliner. Innocent, save for the bundle of electrodes and Plexiglas visor wrapped around the headrest.

_No way…_

My eyes darted from Daniel, to Audrey, to Lucas with dizzying speed. The menacing hoods that, though pulled down, draped all their shoulders. The bracers- not leather, but distinct nonetheless- that adorned their forearms.

I stared back at the contraption I was sitting on, the Animus. The Animus that I was _plugged into _just a few minutes ago.

With the exception of Lucas, the other two looked no older than me. It seemed improbable, impossible, even.

_What else could they be, idiot?_

"Assassins…" I croaked. My face was most likely the picture of utmost disbelief.

"Oh look, a fan!" Audrey exclaimed with feigned enthusiasm, rolling her eyes.

"We're not just assassins, Jason"

I'd been too shocked to notice Daniel take a seat beside me, looking almost sympathetic.

"We're Legacies…descendants of those in the Brotherhood who've protected humanity when it was most threatened."

"Then…what do you want with _me?_" I enquired.

The answer was obvious, but I dreaded hearing it nonetheless.

"You're…you're one too."

**Glossary**

**Shalvar****- Traditional Persian trousers**

**Ohrmazd****- Divine spirit in Persian mythology**

**Vizier (Artabanus)****- King's personal bodyguard**

"**Astharaw-hath-darsawlah"****- Rest in peace**

**Darius****- Member of the Persian Brotherhood of Assassins during the Achaemenid dynasty. He invented the hidden blade. It was first used to assassinate King Xerxes I, which Darius did personally.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three- Family Ties**

I shifted nervously from foot to foot, vacant stare fixed on the cluttered desk before me as I tried to recall Daniel's little pep-talk barely ten minutes ago.

**Ten minutes earlier…**

The van stopped, idling for a few seconds before the driver killed the engine.

"When you meet Mentor de Toire, be sure to address him by his title and speak only when spoken to. Stand unless you are asked to be seated, and keep your questions short and to the point," Daniel rattled off, checking each point on his fingers, frowning at his thumb, which was still tucked in.

The uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice was unsettling.

His face suddenly lit up as he rechecked his fingers for the fourth time. "Oh, I almost forgot, ALWAYS speak the truth, no matter how convincing you think you may be. The mentor will know, trust me."

"Wait, you're not coming?" I asked, taken aback.

It's not that I'd come to trust Daniel after the whole two hours that I'd known him. He'd just been the only one during the lengthy drive who'd acknowledged me with more than a pointed glare or snide remark.

He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry lad, I should've been on border surveillance half an hour ago. Anyway, the Mentor might ask for a full report, and you and Audrey know what happened back in that alley firsthand."

"Wonderful" I muttered, slapping some feeling back into my legs as I stood.

Daniel stifled a snigger as he raised the roller door.

"Best of luck, bruv!"

**Present**

The pervading scent of coffee pulled me from my thoughts, giving way to a frigid gust of wind as the glass door at the far end of the room swung open.

I didn't know what to expect from the leader of an organization of trained killers, but the sight before me defied my imagination…

Simply due to the jarring normality of it.

A man who appeared to be in his late forties, sporting close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a 5 o'clock shadow. A pair of gunmetal spectacles sat crookedly on his face, magnifying the dark circles beneath his bloodshot brown eyes.

"Mentor" Beside me, Audrey inclined her head, raising a fist to her chest in salutation.

He gave a noncommittal grunt before taking a swig from the steaming mug clutched loosely in his left hand, grimacing at the taste.

I wouldn't have been surprised to see a pair of slippers peak out from beneath the hemline of his pristine leather trench coat. The guy looked like he'd just lost a fight with his pillow.

"It was a ruse, mentor. The informant-" Audrey began, but he held up a hand for silence.

"I know what happened, Lucas called ahead as soon as you were en-route."

The emerald-eyed assassin looked mutinous.

"You attempted to contact the possible informant _on your own_ and _without backup_," the man stated coldly, "You are to be placed on probation for disregarding a direct order; the Council will decide what is to become of you after that"

"But I-" she protested.

"But nothing! The only reason you haven't been stripped of your rank _right now_ is that your insubordination just happened to lead you to a potential recruit!"

Audrey hung her head.

"Woah woah woah," I piped up, "_Potential recruit?"_

I felt a slight twinge of nausea at where this was going. They had to be mistaken. I'd failed gym class last term, and the only things I killed in cold blood were cockroaches.

"I'm only here because I was shot, kidnapped, and then shoved into a machine that isn't even supposed to exist! I never asked to be here…"

"…er, mentor" I added hastily as his eyes swiveled to me.

"And _I _never asked for your help" Audrey muttered under her breath, but he ignored her. His expression seemed to soften.

"As much as I appreciate your manners, I am not yet your mentor, and the Animus doesn't lie, Jason Michaels"

I stiffened at hearing the familiar patronym, barely suppressing the resentment that welled up inside me like acid.

"I don't go by that surname anymore"

"Oh?" interjected the Mentor, cocking an eyebrow, "and why is that?"

Judging by his tone, he already knew all too well.

"Your father was a good man, passionate. He valued honour and loyalty above-"

My fist slammed into the desk before I could stop myself, trembling with fury.

"You know _nothing _about my father!" I burst out, "If he was so honourable, why did he walk out on his family when they needed him the most?! Why did he leave a teenager to deal with his wife's depression, which _he _caused?!"

The Mentor just smiled maddeningly. I unclenched my fist, hissing in pain as the scabs on my knuckles reopened.

_So it __was _some of my blood that I'd felt during the alley fight earlier.

The renewed burning sensation forced me to rein in my rage, but I was far from settling down any time soon.

"Careful, Jason, Miss Emerson here wouldn't take too kindly to having to patch you up again" he advised, nodding towards the sullen redhead before draining the last of his coffee.

"And as for James…do you know what it is that your father did, exactly?"

"He was a lawyer," I said simply, "he spent most of his time traveling, overseeing criminal cases."

I recalled the day some suits came knocking, removing their shades and trying their best to look bereaved. Ever since then, simply being in the presence of my mom felt like being the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral.

I quickly dispelled thoughts of that seemingly endless summer. He might not tolerate a second outburst…

"He was killed in a planned hit three years ago. Apparently his client had incriminating evidence against some powerful people" I finished.

"I suppose that's partially true. His death _was _related to his line of work, though he dealt a different kind of justice; against the most powerful people you can imagine…"

The mentor trailed off, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

A lump grew in my throat when I realized what he was implying, my breath hitching in my chest as I felt my blood turn to ice.

"Y-you don't mean…"

The elderly man gave a weary sigh.

"There's no other way to say it I guess; your father was killed in service to the Creed, which he'd been faithful to for twenty years"

I collapsed into the chair behind me, an iron-clad fist closing around my heart.

"James Michaels died doing what he was famed for: being one of the Brotherhood's deadliest assassins"

**A.N:**** Props to Phantomtwriter for the first review! chickenblades13; appreciate the lengthier review, and I hope this chapter cleared some of that confusion up (though it raised some more questions, I'm sure)**

**R&R guys!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4- Ultimatum**

I felt the room spin beneath my feet, turning my insides to concrete. My father…

Cold and calculating, sure. It came with the need to play devil's advocate every other week, but an _assassin? _He was a pacifist, preferring to settle things with words and sound reasoning rather than fists and bullets. Hell, he never even kept a gun in the house…

Then, the details began to surface- details which had long since fermented in the depths of my subconscious: the mugging in Rio de Janeiro, the car accident in California, the food poisoning in Italy…

My dad always joked about being accident-prone, but not even Lady Luck could be _that _cruel.

"The Brotherhood could always use another blade, Jason" de Toire said gently.

_So, driving my father to an early grave wasn't enough for them, was it? Time to evaluate my options._

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you are welcome to leave. The truck is still outside, and the driver will take you wherever you want to go."

I blinked. There was no way they'd just let me walk free after everything I knew now. If they did, it's a wonder how they've been kept a secret for so long…

"However," he began.

_Oh great, I wondered how long that would take._

"There is the small matter of your generous little donation last week"

It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about.

There'd been a blood drive at my school last week, so naturally, the entire male student body jumped at the chance to flaunt their pain tolerance. I'd donated too, though it had more to do with missing double math that morning.

The assassins shouldn't-_ couldn't_- know that, unless…

"You've been watching me?" It was more of a statement than a question. The Mentor's lip curled at my accusation.

"Don't flatter yourself. We only kept an eye on you because you're James' son, though it became regrettably clear that you took after your mother instead."

He was trying to make me angry. I don't know why, but I wasn't about to rise to his bait.

"So I donated a few ounces of blood, so what?" I retorted.

"Most blood drives are Templar funded. It's how they weed out those with unique ancestry to become their next Subjects"

The explanation came from beside me. With all her sulking, I'd almost forgotten Audrey was still in the room.

"Exactly," confirmed the Mentor.

"So, as I was saying; you're free to go, but you're more than likely to find some Templars waiting at your doorstep."

_The man drove a hard bargain._

"Alright," I conceded, "but what about my mother? If the Templars are after me, then they'll-"

"No need to worry about them," cut in de Toire, "they won't even bother with a house call once they find out you're dead"

The glint in his eye told me all I needed to know. He thought he'd already won me over.

"No," I said flatly, "I mean, if I'm dead to the Templars, then great, but my mom's still pretty messed up about what happened to my father. If she gets word that something's happened to me too, it would destroy her."

The elderly assassin sighed, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve and then rubbing his eyes before replacing them. I thought I heard him grumble under his breath, as if debating his response with himself.

"Very well, she'll be notified that you're in our custody and why. She will also be under the protection of the Brotherhood until it's certain that the Templars pose her no threat, but you will be forbidden from contacting her. This is to ensure the safety of you _both_." He stabbed at his desk with a finger to emphasize his point.

I was tempted to argue, but I'd already pushed my luck in negotiating my mother's safety. Any more haggling and the only assassination I'd be any part of would be my own.

"Well, if you have no further questions-"

"What about the videogames?"

The childish question slipped out before I could restrain myself. Considering it's the only reason I haven't called the local loony-bin yet, it _was _a reasonable inquiry. Fortunately, Audrey didn't have the energy to spare a cynical barb.

"Ah, I heard you were a fan." The Mentor looked thoroughly bemused.

"That was something our techs cooked up. The sales help us compete with the Templars' deeper pockets, and it also provides a believable cover story. Any assassins who are discovered by the authorities can easily be chalked up to 'videogame violence', as the press likes to call it these days. That doesn't make their penalties any more lenient, I'm afraid."

_Believable cover story. Sure._

"It seems that's all we have time for, sadly" he said, glancing at his…wait, was his watch in his bracer?

"You're lucky," he said, eyeing my injury. "Clean entry and exit, flesh only. That should set you back about two weeks; maybe less if you're a quick healer. Until then, talk to Audrey if you need anything, I'm sure she'll be happy to help."

Her expression said just the opposite.

"She'll show you to your room now."

I glimpsed a flash of fiery red hair out of the corner of my eye as she shuffled to the door without a word. I got shakily back to my feet and followed.

"Oh, and Blake,"

I looked back over my shoulder to see Mentor de Toire rifling through one of the many reams of paperwork scattered across his desk. He mustered a grim smile.

"Welcome to the Farm"

I nodded before crossing the threshold, almost jogging to catch up with Audrey.

I shivered, the ratty band t-shirt I'd pulled on a few hours ago affording me little protection from the crisp, predawn air. A damp, earthy smell stuck to my nostrils, which I did my best to ignore.

A loose hamlet of buildings loomed to the north, but we instead took a pathway that arced to the left, the patter of our footsteps on the cobblestones magnified in the pressing silence.

The building we approached wrapped around the end of the path in an incomplete square. Stairwells on either side led to the upper two levels. Each level consisted of a main corridor flanked by a row of doors on one side, and a railing that overlooked the main square on the other. We took to the stairs, branching off at level two before stopping at Room 13.

_Good thing I'm not superstitious._

"Scan your prints here and only you will be able to access this room."

Audrey indicated a glass panel where the lock (and the handle, for that matter) should be.

"The Mentor's the only one who has the override key, but you have to be suspected of something quite serious for him to come knocking."

She turned to leave, but faltered after a few steps.

"Oh, and-"

Her right arm was a blur as she whipped back around to face me.

_Thunk!_

The knife embedded itself in the soft, lacquered wood of the door behind me, straight between my legs. Thankfully, it was just a few inches too low.

I immediately recognized the matte black grip. The fancy font on the flat of the blade gleamed as I reached down awkwardly to tug it free: _Audentes Fortuna Iuvat. _Fortune favors the bold.

I hadn't even noticed my switchblade was missing. I'd probably been patted down before they'd even decided to tend to my wounds.

It was more of a cheap souvenir than anything truly deadly; a gift from Rome that my dad had given me before he left for what would be his last flight, three years ago.

It bore a rather ironic message, coming from a master of discretion. If what the Mentor said was true, my father had joined the Brotherhood at least a year before he met my mom. Had she known? Probably not- his death shouldn't have come as such a shock to her otherwise. Would she have still married him if she knew?

_Would I have even been born?_

"You'll find the rest of your stuff inside, and don't even bother trying to run away. The same nasty surprises waiting to keep Templars _out _will have no trouble keeping you _in._"

Audrey's icy tone brought me back to reality.

"It hadn't crossed my mind," I replied truthfully "though I'm reconsidering after you just tried to kill me."

She scoffed. "If I wanted to kill you, then you'd already be dead."

"_Good night to you too," _I muttered as she departed, promptly consumed by the shadows as she rounded the corner to the stairwell.

The latch sprang back with a soft click once the system was done saving my fingerprints. I wiped some residue from the frosty panel off on my jeans as I entered, nudging the door shut behind me.

A kitchen dominated the closest corner to my right, complete with a wraparound counter and several appliances. A door a few paces along the wall from it no doubt led to the bathroom.

A desk and chair stood in the back corner; a fitting place for the compact, glossy black laptop that lay open on it.

An austere wardrobe was nestled in the opposite corner, almost as if it was intimidated by the familiar backpack at its base. The contents strewn around the pack ranged from underwear to a mangled old pair of headphones.

Whoever was sent to clear out my room back home certainly took their orders a little too literally.

Most of the back wall was taken up by a pair of glass sliding doors, through which a little cement balcony beckoned.

I couldn't help but let out a low whistle. To be able to afford a room like this for every trainee in the building…this was a far cry from the crumbling fortresses and unused storerooms that the assassins were once partial to.

A rustic bed rested against the wall to my left, bathed in the ghostly green glow of a digital clock that sat on the bedside table. It read 02:30.

The alley incident had occurred four hours ago. Just the thought of everything that had happened since then made my eyelids grow heavy.

I tossed my knife beside the clock, flopping face down on the bed. I was so exhausted that I almost forgot to avoid landing on my bad arm.

A death-like sleep soon followed, broken only by surreal dreams of my dad crossing blades with a smug Mentor de Toire.


End file.
